the games
by mxxra
Summary: it's only a game until you're playing it.


**title:** the games

**summary:** it's only a game until you're playing it.

**author's note:** just a random little one-shot that popped into my head a while ago, and also my first attempt at fanfiction. basically, this is Katniss and Johanna kind of describing, almost walking you through the Hunger Games together, as if you were a tribute and they were your mentors. i really loved the chemistry and subtle parallels between them, and somehow this is the result.

**disclaimer:** obviously i do not own any rights to the hunger games whatsoever.

**word count:** 1,238

**important note:** the _italicized_ words are Katniss, while the normal is Johanna.

* * *

><p><em>I don't know how I did it. Survive, I mean.<em>

I don't know how anyone does it. The suspense is enough to kill.

_You know it, even though you don't want to believe it. One of them — if not both — has to die._

You're wondering who. You? Your best friend?

_Your sister?_

Sometimes you're chosen. Against your will.

_Sometimes you have to volunteer. Because you have no other choice._

Sometimes there's silence. No one dares to speak.

_Sometimes your loved ones cry out, calling your name._

Which would you rather have?

_Everyone you know and love, begging you to stay with them?_

Or no one who truly cares, leaving only the wind to take your place?

_You don't want to go._

No one does.

_Except the Careers. Who are three times your size and trained for practically anything._

Before you can think clearly, you're up on the stage, and it's time for one more name to be drawn.

_Who will accompany you to Death?_

Sometimes it's a complete stranger.

_Sometimes it's a childhood memory._

Sometimes you don't care who it is.

_Sometimes, you do nothing but care._

Saying good-bye is the worst.

_You either clutch to your loved ones and pray..._

... or sit alone in a room, waiting for the Peacekeepers to take you to the train.

_The train. That's the real do-or-die time._

It's when you have to decide: fight, or die.

_Luckily, I'm a fighter._

Unfortunately, so is the boy tribute.

_More or less._

All you can do is hope and cry.

_Crying is a weakness._

But sometimes showing your weakness, at least to yourself, is a strength.

_Maybe even showing your weakness to the world is a strength._

Especially if the weakness is fake.

_All you can do is think about what's ahead of you and what you left behind._

Nothing. That's what I left behind.

_Everything. That's what I left behind._

What's ahead of you, you may not know until you get there.

_If you have to wait until you get there, then it's too late._

So who do you go to?

_Your mentor._

Sometimes, they might honestly be trying to help.

_Sometimes, they're drunk and barely even pay attention to you._

The honest ones are easy.

_The drunk ones, not so much._

Just ask for help. They'll give it.

_But if asking doesn't work, then try stabbing their hand. In my opinion, that works more effectively._

Sometimes, they'll pour out their heart to you.

_Sometimes, they'll just give you one piece of advice._

'Don't argue with your stylist.'

_Stylists: don't underestimate them._

But don't overestimate them, either.

_You thought the pain would start with the Games?_

You don't know the meaning of pain.

_Prepare for every square millimeter of hair on your body — except for your head — to be ripped off of your skin._

But still, you don't argue.

_Because your drunk mentor told you not to._

Then comes the opening ceremonies.

_This is where you wonder if your stylist is insane..._

... or just plain stupid.

_Possibly both._

Sometimes you clutch on to the chariot, trying not to look like a complete fool.

_Sometimes you clutch to the boy tribute's hand, trying not to be burned alive._

But after a while, you lighten up.

_You smile and wave, even blowing kisses to the crowd._

The night passes by, quicker than possible.

_Then begins the training._

It's the first time you really get a good look at the other tribute's skills.

_Some are terrifying. Some are terrified._

What other words of wisdom does your mentor tell you?

_'Hide your skills and save them for the private sessions.'_

Seems like this whole 'advice' thing is going one step at a time.

_But you still do what they say._

Now is the time to show your weakness.

_Or, rather, not show your strengths._

Axes.

_Bows._

The lethal weapons you're dying to use remained untouched.

_But finally, the private session with the Gamemakers arrives._

You show off, but not too much; you still want the others to think you're weak.

_Or you might get mad, because they're as drunk as your mentor._

You can perform deadly maneuvers on the dummies around the room.

_Or you can shoot an apple out of the mouth of their roast pig._

Impress the hell out of them.

_Scare the hell out of them._

Then, the training scores.

_Trying not to nibble on your manicured nails, you watch in anticipation of the worst._

An eight. Not bad.

_An eleven. Definitely not bad._

But there's still one more thing you'll have to do before the Games.

_The interviews._

Don't be too intimidated by Caesar Flickerman's appearance.

_He really tries his best to make you shine._

The other interviews flash by, and suddenly it's your turn.

_You might have a certain angle to play._

Weak, sniveling, and generally terrified, to bring the other tributes' guard down.

_Or you might be completely dependent on your stylist's skills._

Be vague about your training score.

_Be vague about yourself. Gush about the Capitol, if you have to._

And then it's over.

_Sometimes._

Most times.

_Or sometimes your District's boy tribute will confess his love for you, and the Capitol will go absolutely insane._

Not usually.

_But there's always a chance._

Well, eventually, you get back to your District's floor.

_And you'll get angry at the boy tribute and end up getting his hands cut._

Or you'll just go back to your room, alone.

_It doesn't matter, though. The next day is the Games._

Do. Or. Die.

_The moment of truth._

Any last words of advice from your mentor?

_'Stay alive.'_

Time flies by, and before you know it, you're standing on your plate, waiting to lifted up.

_You have no idea what the arena will be like._

A desert?

_An ocean?_

The first thing you see is the Cornucopia, sitting in full glory in the center of the circle of tributes.

_A giant golden horn, weapons spilling out of its mouth._

You have 60 seconds to get your bearings and form a strategy.

_60 seconds is not enough._

The gong rings.

_You either grab the first thing you see and run for your life..._

... or grab the first thing you see and start killing whoever gets in your way.

_After the bloodbath, you need to find water._

If you don't, you'll die a slow and painful death.

_I almost did._

Don't get cornered by Careers, either.

_You could always throw a tracker-jacker nest on them..._

... or neatly slice their heads off with an axe...

_... but there's always a chance you might not come out._

Try not to make allies.

_Both of you will know the alliance will not last._

Have you ever watched someone die in your arms?

_It's a painful experience._

Still, you move on and continue to survive.

_But simply surviving is not enough for the Capitol._

Eventually, it comes down to two.

_Only one can survive._

You might rely on your weapons...

_... or love._

And somehow, you win.

_Sometimes, you're not alone._

Most times, you are.

_But the Games are not over yet._

It's cruel, how the Capitol forces you to watch your nightmare over again.

_You might have someone to hold on to. Your lifeline._

But most times, all you have is yourself.

_Then, you're crowned a winner and sent home._

But you haven't really won. Not really.

_No one has ever won._

No one ever will.


End file.
